Knowing Taito for some time, I realized I had never talked about photography with him. Among the many topics we’ve shared—our misbehaving teen years, work, relationships, and more work—he has always carried an impulsive drive for life in the way he moves, one that mesmerizes many, including myself. One line he sang, though I can’t remember who it was originally from, during one of our Filipino karaoke bar nights really stuck with me: “Tokyo is not a graveyard for dreams.” It carried the same energy as that one time I joined him and our friends at the very end of the night. At 7 a.m., after five clubs and Thai food for breakfast, I said, “I still want to hang out.” He replied, “Yeah, where should we go next?” He carried, and we vibed.
Tokyo holds the most extreme duality one can live through, and everyone who’s still here has learned their own way to struggle over it. After all, the meaning behind those moments is what he, I, and everyone else is searching for—tonight, tomorrow, and forever after. And Taito chose photography as his way to decide. Not long ago, I visited his co-exhibition with another dear friend, Waku. It was the first time I saw his photographic work dissolving seamlessly into the fog, illuminated during the intervals between Waku’s dimly lit neon pieces. The pictures spoke for themselves. Everything else felt unnecessary. The people next to you didn’t matter; the space you were in ceased to exist. You just had to feel it. Feel the glimmer trapped beneath the thick frame. Feel his spirit bristling against your eyes. I thought that I had it, just for a split second. It seemed to stay there forever, captured and encased, but then, when I left the gallery, it was gone again.
—Yiqing Yan
Full segment featured in Issue 12 of Living Proof Magazine.
Your photos capture the moment beautifully, but they also feel strangely distant. Like we are touching something we cannot fully reach. Even when I am hanging out with you, it feels like you are living fully in the present, but also chasing something unattainable. How do you see that?
I think I am very aware of how fast the moment disappears. There is a lightness, even a fragility in that passing, and I find it precious, almost romantic. I want to preserve that. I think I project that desire onto my photos. Like I want to vacuum seal the air, the scent, the atmosphere of now and carry it into the future. I know I cannot return to the moment. No one can. But I also feel a kind of pressure, like a compulsion. If I do not remember it, if it fades, then it is like that past never existed. That terrifies me a little. So I take photos based on my personal perception of that time, wanting to hold onto the air of that moment as I age. The atmosphere, the relationships, the humidity of the room that becomes part of the image. I think that emotion is what gives color to my photography.
When did you start engaging with photography in this way? When did this obsession with time begin?
It started after my first photobook, Dramatic Tokyo in 2023. That book was my personal take on the city, built mostly on street snaps. I was constantly out there shooting Tokyo. But once it was done, I felt like I did not need to shoot that way anymore. That changed something in me. I started looking more closely at the people around me, started noticing the kind of photos I could only take in the moment. That is when the obsession, or pressure, began. I knew things were going to end, and I wanted to hold on before they did.
Why did that awareness grow so strong?
Because everything ends. The moment environments change, we scramble to hold on. The more memories stack up, the more we forget. And I know we forget. That is why I take photos. Because no one remembers forever, even though everyone knows that. Still, not many people actually try to leave something behind.
When I look at your work, I do not just see the image. I remember the exact moment you were there with me. Why do you think your photos bring back memories so strongly?
I do not set up complex visual metaphors or try to hide meanings. It is just that I was there, and so were you. That simplicity lets people feel more than they expect. Photography is manipulatable in a beautiful way. Unlike moving images that give you every detail, a photograph leaves space. You choose what to remember, and that becomes everything you have.
Your first major project, Dramatic Tokyo, focused heavily on the city. What was your intention behind that book?
It came from living away from home and traveling overseas. I noticed how people romanticize a nostalgic image of Japan, especially the 1990s and early 2000s. But there is a disconnect. I wanted to show that Japan right now is wild too. I would bike around Shinjuku after work and photograph the Tokyo I was actually living in. It was a two year process. But by the end, I realized the city will not change just because I photograph it. People and moments are much more fleeting than landscapes. Street photography is easy in a way. The street stays the same. But moments with people you care about cannot be recreated. There is no second chance. That is what I am drawn to now.
You often talk about being drawn to things that do not last. Why?
Because you cannot fake it. There is nothing to posture about. It is raw and sometimes embarrassing, but I love that. Those experiences are the most meaningful to me. My photography is a documentary of myself, my friends, and this specific moment in time. I know this period of my life will end, but I am okay with that because I have already left something behind.
Read the full interview in Living Proof Magazine Issue 12, available on the Living Proof Patreon and Online Shop.
